The Worst
by WoodenDialogue
Summary: Deep in the Dornish Marches lies House Haunt, a family with a blood-soaked reputation for treachery and cunning. Lord Daeron Haunt risks everything on a series of increasingly mad bids for control over the Iron Throne, his brother Vorian seeks to cut his own bloody path to power while his niece Yaema uncovers the dark truth behind of their family's past.


"This can't be a good idea". The two men stood at the edge of a crater that almost seemed perfectly round, save for the river that cut a curving path through the pit.

Ned couldn't help but agree with the Crannogman. Ever since he and his countrymen had journeyed south from King's Landing, Ned had been haunted by a feeling of unease, a sense of some unseen and ambiguous force following him. His apprehension had only increased as they travelled through the Prince's Pass and witnessed the stacks of burned corpses their Dornish allies had left behind.

"The king spoke highly of their character" Ned reminded his friend, "These men were some of his earliest supporters. The first outside the Stormlands to take up arms for him."

"Aye, that's why I don't trust them. Lannister and Greyjoy, flocking to the king's cause when victory was all but guaranteed, that's understandable. But what sane man raises his banner for an upstart lord he's never met to go against the bloody Targaryans. It goes beyond blatant opportunism, it's the gamble of a mad man."

"Mad or not, we owe it to Ser Dayne that get through their siege." Ned drove his spurs into the destrier, urging her on. The Crannogman followed behind on his geldling.

"You could always keep the damn sword."

The crater was as ancient as Ned's own house, a geographic remnant of the age of heroes. The green grass and wet mud underfoot, courtesy of the river, provided a welcomed change to the sandy rocky ground that was typical of Dorne. At the centre of the pit rose Starfall, a towering pale structure of towers and walls that commanded the crater and much of nearby lands. Surrounding the castle lay an organised mass of tents and makeshift wooden constructions. Dotted throughout were banners, adorned with the sigils of many of the local Dornish families. As they approached Ned spotted vultures carrying babes, snakes twisting around feet, a crowned skull, a hooded hawk and, most prominently of all, a black eye against a mauve field. _The dark eye of haunt._ It seemed as though a thousand eyes were watching Ned as he moved toward the camp.

Their approach was noticed; soldiers began to scurry for their weapons, bowmen appeared on wooden towers. As Ned and his companion reached the camp's perimeter a small company was there to greet them.

"Who are ye and what's ye purpose?" A young soldier, yet already endowed with a veteran's scars and grizzled sergeant's voice, spoke.

"Eddard Stark, lord of Winterfell. This here is Howland Reed, lord of the Greywater Watch. We have come to seek an audience with Lord Dayne."

The soldier murmured something into the ear of what looked like a squire, who promptly sprinted off.

"You'll disarm yourselves and wait here. No seeks parley with the castle without Lord Haunt's approval."

"That won't be necessary Haegall." A voice, thick with a lazy Dornish drawl, came from a slouching silhouette obscured by the shadow of a tent. The figure rose to come greet the travellers. The speaker was young, younger than both Ned and Howland, with a youth's mane of black hair. Despite his age his tanned skin and solid build bore the symptoms of soldiering. But it was his eyes that immediately demanded attention; they were near inhuman. Both orbs seemed to be covered in a dark mist or a film of black oil. It was as though two jewels of jet had been hammered into his skull. The youth grinned and introduced himself. "Ser Vorian Haunt. Come, I'll escort you to my brother."

The knight led the way through the camp on foot with the two Northerners following behind on horseback. Around them men laid sprawled across the grass, exposing naked bodies to the sun while others chased giggling women around the tents. Despite the well organised nature of the camp the siege was not quite as professional as it had first appeared. The affair had dragged on too long; the soldiers had become too comfortable in siege-life or else they were restless and eager to return to their own farms and homes now that the Mad King had been defeated.

"Does Starfall hold any great strategic importance? Is House Dayne a threat to King Robert?" Ned was curious why the siege had been continued now the war had ended.

"No. The strength of House Dayne was broken in the Prince's Pass, along with the rest of the Mad King's Dornish supporters. But the Daynes fought for the Dragon and lost and now they all must pay the debts of war." The knight was smirking.

"It was reported in King's Landing that Lord Dayne was captured in the Prince's Pass." Howland interjected.

"Aye, he was. But he died, hence this." The Dornishman gestured generically to siege. "Camp fever took him, nasty way to go. His eldest, Lady Ashara, rules Starfall now. Quite the beauty I hear."

That was their ploy then, Ned concluded, wed the daughter and claim Starfall for themselves. The Daynes were an ancient and respected house, tracing their descent to the First Men. The Haunts, meanwhile, were little more than ambitious upstarts, emerging during Nymeria's conquests seven-and-a-half centuries ago. Gods be good, Ned longed to escape these southern intrigues and retreat to the simplicity of the North.

As the rode deeper into the camp, Ned heard the sounds of steel hitting steel. Two men, both bare-chested and sweating, were sparring. One was fair-haired and blue eyed and whose shield sported the hooded hawk. The other bore the black hair, though closely cropped, and inhuman dark eyes of Ned and Howland's escort. The two men seemed not to notice Ned's approach. Vorian casually picked up a shield that had been left on the ground and tossed it at the combatants, striking the back of the blonde youth's legs. It caught their attention.

"Brother, this is Lord Eddard Stark and Lord…" Vorian looked at Howland quizzically.

"Reed."

"…Reed. They seek an audience with Lady Dayne."

The black-haired, dark-eyed lording took a moment to breathe and stare at the two northerners before his mouth slid into a grin.

"Daeron Haunt. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark." He gripped Ned's hand in a tight handshake. Ned guessed the Dornish Lord had maybe five years on his younger brother. He had a joviality to him, although it lacked any real sincerity.

He motioned for them to follow him into a nearby tent. Once dismounted Howland took time to inconspicuously replace the blade hanging from his own belt with one strapped to his geldling. The tent was larger than the rest in siege, clearly the domain of a commander, yet it lacked the grandeur preferred by other lords on campaign. Clearly the debts of war had not been kind to House Haunt. A map of Westeros was sprawled across a table. Vorian and the fair-haired youth followed the two northerners in, though they hung back in the shaded corners of the tent.

"So, tell me, what does the Lord of Winterfell want with a Dornish lady? Lord Haunt offered a flagon of summerwine to Ned and Howland. They refused. "To have your savage northern way with her, perhaps?" Haunt grinned, affecting an air of good humour.

"I'm here to return the ancestral sword of House Dayne to Starfall." Ned stated, in no uncertain terms less these Dornishmen try to persuade him to hand the sword over. If the Dornishman was surprised his face didn't express it.

"May we see the sword?" He asked, softly.

Howland unwrapped the longsword from its binding oil cloth and delicately placed on the table. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with light, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge on.

The other two Dornishmen had come from the shadows to gawk at the blade. "What became of its master?" The elder Haunt spoke.

"Died in battle." Ned would let then assume he meant alongside Prince Rhaegar and the rest of the Targaryan loyalists.

"On the Trident?" The Dornishmen paused. "Or in Dorne."

It suddenly occurred to Ned that the Haunts may have already known why Ned was in Dorne. "Dorne." He clarified.

"Slayed the great Ser Dayne yourself then. Impressive feat." Daeron hadn't looked at the blade once, keeping his gaze firmly on Ned.

"There is precedent for ancestral blades passing to men who defeat their wielders." The brother, Vorian, suddenly spoke. "Or in some cases, houses have submitted their blades as tribute." The implication was clear. "So, perhaps returning the blade to Starfall may not be so appropriate."

"Vorian, Franklyn, leave us." The lord ordered and offered an apologetic smile. He looked at Ned and motioned with his head towards Lord Reed.

"Howland, wait outside." Vorian, Howland and the blond youth left the tent. All three looked distinctively displeased.

"You'll have to forgive my brother. Ambition is, quite literally, a family curse. Us Haunts had a sword, not so unlike that, but good King Daeron forced us to return it to those we'd stolen it from." Lord Haunt leaned back in his chair. "What was Ser Dayne doing in Dorne? I am told Ser Barristan was pardoned after the Trident and Lannister paid for his pardon with royal blood. Was there not a pardon waiting for the famous Sword of the Morning?"

Ned shrugged and chose his words carefully. "Perhaps he hoped to raise a host in Dorne and continue the war in the name of Prince Viserys."

"Indeed." Lord Haunt didn't believe him and he let his suspicions show. "Lord Stark, I am prepared to grant your request, but I'll require two favours of you in return."

"That doesn't sound like an equal exchange."

"Well, one of the favours is unlikely to succeed." Lord Haunt held up a dirty finger, "First, you will persuade the Lady Ashara to surrender and submit to our siege. She'll say no and this charade will drag on."

Ned assented. "And the second favour."

Lord Haunt gave a toothy grin a stood up. He grabbed a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to draw a thick, dark and wet line on the map of Westeros. "Winterfell, Riverrun and the Eyrie." He counted them off his fingers. "All fought for the stag and all in the north of the realm. In the west we have Lannister and Greyjoy and their loyalties are less than clear. But here in the south, our king has few friends, no?"

"Except you?"

"Except us. And are we not it such a perfect position? We can block the pass with ease to prevent a Martell host marching from Dorne and we have such easy access into the very heartland from the Reach. But alas we are such a weak house. My steward wept when he saw how this campaign would bankrupt us."

Ned had looked at the map. The Dornishman had drew a ring around the Dornish marches and them some, the line stretched from Summerhall in the Stormlands to castle of Uplands in the Reach. "So, you need the king to make you powerful."

"Indeed. And you'll be the one to persuade the king to our way of thinking, for the good of the realm." The flagrant ambition made Ned feel sick.

"The King's peace should be guarded by loyal men not –"

"Loyalty!" The Dornishman laughed. "What is loyalty, Lord Stark, is it love? Is it sacred and sworn oaths? King Aerys though his Kingsguard loyal and yet Lannister opened his throat for his family. Better men honest about their ambition and the liars you think are loyal, no?"

Ned's felt a coldness about him. "I'll relay your thoughts to the King, what he does with them is not within my power to control?"

Lord Haunt smiled again. "That's all I wished for." He handed Ned Dawn, hilt first. "And Lord Stark, don't forget to send my love to Lady Dayne."


End file.
